The rain in Veyrn always carried the scent of brass and blood.

  Even in the noble quarter, where the cobblestones were polished and the gutters discreetly drained away the filth, the truth still lingered in the air. Lysara Korr stood beneath a canopy of polished iron and glass, the sound of distant thunder humming low above the gothic skyline. Her porcelain mask caught the reflection of flickering gaslamps, gold filigree glinting with every breath she took.

  She waited outside the Grand Hall of Accord, where the noble houses met under the illusion of unity. Behind its towering doors, House Draeven—the ruling seat of the realm—hosted yet another summit of diplomacy. Another performance. Another carefully choreographed lie.

  Her gloved fingers adjusted the lace at her collar, a nervous habit masked as poise. On the surface, she was serenity incarnate: the diplomat of House Korr, well-spoken, beautifully dressed, and perfectly in control. But beneath the mask, scars throbbed with every drop of cold rain that touched her skin. The past never stayed buried in Veyrn—not even when hidden behind porcelain.

  The doors opened with a low mechanical hum, spilling warm golden light onto the rain-slicked steps.

  Lysara stepped forward, her boots silent on the marble. She entered the chamber as a shadow among giants.

  The hall was beautiful in the way a blade could be—elegant, balanced, and meant for blood. Velvet drapes soaked in amber candlelight hung from pillars of obsidian stone. The noble banners of all seven houses stretched above the chamber, silent witnesses to every whispered threat. Lysara moved with purpose, the hem of her dark gown trailing like spilled ink. Her mask gave her presence—a blank, golden-eyed enigma—but it also hid the slight tension in her jaw, the ghost of a tremor in her hands.

  At the long crescent table, the lords and ladies of Veyrn turned to her as one.

  “Lady Korr,” said Queen Malenne of House Draeven, her voice soft as lace and twice as binding. “We were just discussing the border skirmishes with House Nareth. I trust House Korr has no objections to the proposed terms?”

  A test. Always a test.

  Lysara bowed her head, her mask glinting in the light. “House Korr believes that peace, once broken, is not easily mended. We support the terms, provided House Nareth agrees to cease their fortification of the eastern ridge.”

  That drew a ripple through the room. Controlled. Measured. She could feel Malenne’s smile behind her wine cup—amused, as always.

  “Such clarity,” murmured Lord Revek Belroth, his voice snake-smooth. “And yet so guarded. Tell me, Lady Korr… do you always bring a weapon to a peace table?”

  She didn’t flinch. “Only when I suspect I may be the only one without one hidden in a sleeve.”

  A few nobles chuckled. Others frowned. One, a young lordling too new to know better, stared too long at her mask.

  “You wear that even in private sessions?” he asked. “What are you hiding?”

  Lysara turned her head toward him slowly. “A lesson.”

  Silence.

  Then Malenne laughed softly, defusing the tension with a tilt of her glass. “Let us not provoke House Korr’s envoy. We would hate to see another diplomatic retreat.”

  The session continued, flowing between petty grievances and strategic posturing. But Lysara’s thoughts drifted, just slightly, as they always did in rooms like this.

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  To Vaelen, who once stood where she now sat.

  To the last time she saw his body, broken beneath the collapsed marble arch.

  To the way the Church declared it an “unfortunate architectural failure.”

  At the back of the chamber, Bastian Wren stood like a statue in the shadows. Unmoving. Watching.

  The light from the chandeliers caught the faint silver in his hair, the way his fingers gently touched the inside edge of his coat—where he always kept the folded letter. No expression crossed his face. No sound left his lips.

  But Lysara didn’t need words.

  She knew he hadn’t forgotten.

  Neither had she.

  The meeting ended in the usual ceremony—bows, exchanged sigils, polished smiles. Promises made with poisoned parchment. As the nobles dispersed, Lysara waited. Only once the room was nearly empty did she move.

  Bastian was already at her side.

  “Well?” she asked, quiet.

  He said nothing—just looked at her, then offered his handkerchief to wipe the edge of her porcelain mask. Rain still clung to the gold trim.

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  She didn’t need him to answer. His silence said everything.

  Tonight had only been a warning.

  Something was coming.

  As she stepped through the towering bronze doors and into the night once more, the city of Veyrn spread out before her—a realm suspended between past and future, wonder and rot.

  The capital’s skyline rose like jagged teeth into the clouds, its gothic towers veined with glowing circuitry. Cathedral spires shimmered with flickering neon runes, their stained-glass windows casting soft, holy light onto streets paved in ancient stone and reinforced steel. Above, airships drifted like silent predators, their hulls humming with arcane engines, banners of noble houses fluttering beneath them.

  Closer to the ground, the noble district pulsed with eerie beauty. Gaslamps shaped like mechanical angels watched from every street corner. Horses with chrome-fused limbs pulled carriages lined with velvet and gold. Couriers rode sleek hoverbikes alongside cobbled lanes. Every building—no matter how old—breathed with quiet life, thanks to the mix of magic and tech infused into its bones.

  But beneath the beauty, Lysara saw the cracks.

  The citadel walls, built to keep out threats long buried, now kept the poor hidden from view. Below the grand avenues and luminous courts, the Underground City stretched like a festering wound—a maze of rusted steel, flickering lights, and forgotten people.

  She knew it well. The grime, the smell of grease and burnt oil, the addictive thrum of Fey Dust. The gangs, the hush-markets, the whispered warnings. It was a city within a city. And sometimes, a shadow crossed the glass towers above when a noble dared to look down.

  Above all, Veyrn was a realm of masks.

  Ceremonial. Political. Literal.

  Everyone wore one.

  Even the gods, some said.

  Inside the Korr estate, she moved through halls lit by amber sconces. Her steps were soundless on the marble. Paintings of ancestors watched her pass—stern eyes, pale faces, none of them smiling.

  She reached her private chambers.

  Her reflection in the mirror stared back—half-shadowed, elegant, and marked. The scars across her cheek and jaw were pale but jagged, twisted reminders of the overseer’s wrath from a life she no longer spoke of.

  She touched them lightly.

  Then set the porcelain mask on the table.

  She sat by the window, the folded Scythe of Repentance resting across her knees, and stared out at the city of Veyrn.

  The lights.

  The lies.

  The masks.

  She opened a drawer, revealing an old piece of parchment—Vaelen’s handwriting fading, but still legible.

  “Trust no one without scars.”

  Outside, thunder rumbled low over the city.

  Inside, Lysara leaned back, closed her eyes, and whispered the same prayer she always did after a summit:

  “Forgive me for what I am.”